


Rash waistcoats and inprepid poets

by anamia



Series: The daemon!jolras AU [7]
Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Gen, mention of offscreen abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 04:59:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamia/pseuds/anamia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Bahorel would be the first to admit, he and his daemon underestimated Prouvaire when they met him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rash waistcoats and inprepid poets

Bahorel would be the first to admit, he and Nolwenn underestimated Prouvaire when they met him. It would be hard not to, what with Prouvaire's tendency towards bashfulness and his chronic inability to look strangers in the eye. His dæmon, brightly colored though she was, tended to stay close to him, just as quiet as her human as they both observed the world around them. Prouvaire had been introduced to the group by Courfeyrac, who collected friends the way Combeferre collected books, and to everyone's surprise he had stayed. Day after day he returned, slipping into the meeting room with a shy smile and a faint blush on his cheeks, dæmon coiled around his neck or his upper arm. Bahorel asked around to make sure he could be trusted -- Courfeyrac generally had good judgment, but it never hurt to be careful when one was talking treason -- and then gave Prouvaire no more of his attention.

Not until nearly a month after Prouvaire's introduction to the group did he catch Bahorel and Nolwenn's eye again. He came in late to the meeting, hair falling loosely around his face and dæmon wound tightly around one arm. There was a sharpness to his movements that they had never seen before, and the older man and his dæmon traded looks. Combeferre did not pause in his speech as Prouvaire sat down, though he did shoot the young man a questioning glance.

Prouvaire said nothing as the meeting progressed, though his dæmon occasionally spoke quietly to him. He ran delicate hands down her scales, fingers trembling slightly. When the formal portion of the meeting ended Courfeyrac headed towards him, Marielle close on his heels. Bahorel followed, leaning against a nearby wall to listen in. Nolwenn perched on his shoulder, balancing easily despite her large size.“Is everything all right?” Courfeyrac asked Prouaire, who flushed slightly.

“Yes,” he said. “We ran into some trouble on the way here, but nothing dramatic.” Even as he spoke Courfeyrac reached out and pushed his hair out of his face, revealing the beginnings of a truly impressive black eye. Prouaire’s blush deepened even as Bahorel’s eyebrows rose.

“I assume your opponent looks worse?” Courfeyrac asked, and Bahorel and Nolwenn traded looks. Prouaire certainly did not look as though he could do damage to anyone larger than a child. Then again, his dæmon had the form of a snake well known for taking down larger enemies, and Courfeyrac seemed confident. Prouvaire nodded, and actually smiled.

“He deserved it,” the young man said.

“Of that I have absolutely no doubt,” Courfeyrac said with a laugh. He clasped Prouvaire’s shoulder. “Nor have I any doubt that he’ll think twice before crossing you again.”

“But will he think twice before crossing her?” Prouvaire asked, meeting Courfeyrac’s eyes angrily. “Or will he take out his anger on her even more than before as punishment for attracting attention? Have our actions only made things worse?”

“Only time will tell about that,” Courfeyrac said. “But at least now she knows that there is someone on her side who is not afraid to fight for her rights and her safety. Is that not our purpose here?”

Prouvaire sighed, still looking troubled. “It should not take violence to assure safety,” he said. His dæmon hissed her agreement.

“True enough,” Courfeyrac agreed. “But such is the world we inhabit and yet one more thing we must change in order to bring about the world we desire. For the moment we do what we can and accept that it must be imperfect.” He grimaced. “And now I sound like Combeferre. Tell you what, if you tell me her name I will do what I can to keep an eye on her welfare.”

Prouvaire supplied a name and an address, which both Bahorel and Courfeyrac filed away in their memories. Having heard enough, Bahorel strolled away from the two, Nolwenn hovering at his side. The two did not need to speak to understand each other and not a word of the earlier conversation passed their lips as they dropped to a seat next to Grantaire and Calixte. The wine flowed freely between the two men and their dæmons as they held court, the others dropping by for drink and conversation before moving on to mingle with different groups. It was a lively meeting, the air thick with laughter and debate. Bahorel and Courfeyrac very nearly came to blows over Bahorel’s favorite waistcoat, a magnificent creation in blinding scarlet with gold-colored buttons. Only the arbitration of a very amused Combeferre kept the debaters from using more than their words, and when Grantaire plowed in to suggest that perhaps they should compromise with purple it became a full scale battle for verbal dominance.

By the time Grantaire’s wit had seen him to victory it was very late and several people had wandered away, Prouvaire included. The remaining men took their leave of each other quickly after, walking or staggering into the night air depending on how much they had drunk and how well they held their alcohol. Bahorel stuffed his hands into his pockets, more because of the way it made Courfeyrac gasp than because he found it comfortable, and headed towards his rooms, head swimming pleasantly. Once inside Nolwenn perched on one of Bahorel’s bedposts while Bahorel kicked off his shoes and removed the waistcoat that had started the entire thing.

“We should ask them to lunch,” she observed.

“Grantaire and Calixte are far better companions at sundown than at noon,” Bahorel reminded her, and Nolwenn clacked her beak in annoyance.

“Not them,” she said. “Prouvaire and his dæmon.”

“Evelyne,” Bahorel supplied, straddling a chair and meeting her eyes. “I was thinking the same. We should give our regards to their new friends first though. Perhaps two will convince him where one could not.”

Nolwenn laughed, tilting her head in lieu of the wicked smirk that would require lips to make. “Oh yes,” she said. “After this evening we could certainly use the exercise.”


End file.
